


Ad Astrum

by chidorinnn



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Final Fantasy X AU, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22355218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chidorinnn/pseuds/chidorinnn
Summary: Prince Noctis is the first to be named a summoner in over half a century. Not so coincidentally, the Starscourge is at its worst, and the Oracles are powerless to stop it.A Final Fantasy X AU.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 3
Kudos: 53
Collections: The Ignoct Big Bang 2019





	Ad Astrum

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man... this fic. This is the most plotting and planning and writing and rewriting I've done for a single fic in, like, _years_. 
> 
> I've had this idea bouncing around my head for a while now: Noctis as a summoner in a Final Fantasy X sense, in which he's compelled to go on a pilgrimage in order to win the favor of the gods and save the world. The _finality_ of his fate in canon made it very easy to twist his role in the story to fit something more like Yuna's — but Ignis is no Tidus, and so working him into this AU was quite the interesting exercise.
> 
> In theory, this is the first part of a long, long AU. While this fic works as a standalone entry, I hope to add more in the future :-)
> 
> A big, big thank you to Kirakanjo for the lovely art that accompanies this fic ([look at it!](https://twitter.com/kirakanjo/status/1219816333052768256?s=21)) and to [willowispstudio](https://willowispstudio.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

(The sky is bleeding.

A king walks across the world on his own two feet and wonders, not for the first time, if he is truly doing the right thing.

He cannot banish the miasma that seeps into his people’s bones: he can only draw it into himself and then smile through the nausea as the people call it a _miracle_. This is what the Crystal has blessed him with; it is not the only power it has granted him, but it is the only one that matters.

His brother sits on his throne, picking up the pieces that the king had left behind. The king will be back someday – he’d promised – but his people are dying and they need their king _here_ , with them, and not secluded somewhere they cannot reach.

… is it truly the right thing to do, to abandon his throne in favor of meeting his people? A small girl, no older than five, breathes for the first time in weeks without coughing, and she bows reverently to him as her parents had no doubt instructed her to do. “Thank you very much, Your Majesty.”

The sky bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds, and it laughs in the face of Ardyn Lucis Caelum for daring to try.)

* * *

The ritual is a long, drawn-out affair. It’s more for publicity than practice, because Noct has summoned Odin more than enough times for it to be second nature by now — but Odin is large, even if summoning him is no longer quite so difficult, and he tends to arrive with a flourish that begets _excitement_.

In the center of the clearing stands Noct in his ceremonial robes, his sword pointed downward as its blade drags by his feet. He’s always hated those robes — they’re painfully heavy, layers upon layers of fabric that render him a vision in black and white while making even the slightest movement an ordeal in and of itself.

“C’mon, Iggy,” he’d said that morning. “It’s not like this is some big, fancy religious thing. No one’s going to care.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Noct,” Ignis had tutted in response. “Is that what you will tell the Six?”

Noct closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He raises his arm above his head, sweeping the sword upward in an arc before he twirls it and grabs the hilt with both hands, slamming the blade into the ground. The crowd falls silent as three wisps of light scatter from the blade, ascending higher and higher until they almost look like stars in the sky.

Then something that does not look entirely human swoops down. Both it and its equally otherworldly mount are swathed in darkened armor, a spear clutched in the hand that’s not grasping at the reins as it lands gracefully before him. 

“Thanks again, Odin,” says Noct, just quietly enough for Ignis to hear but not so loud that the people surrounding them notice that he’s said anything at all.

Odin inclines his head before raising his spear to the heavens. From its tip, Thunder magic blooms before shooting upward, higher and higher until it disperses into a thousand tiny sparks.

The crowd cheers, and Noct takes this moment to grin unabashedly at Odin — a testament to how much work it had taken to earn his favor and the right to summon him in the first place. He grips the hilt of his sword tightly with both hands, pulling it out of the ground, and bows deeply. Odin inclines his head once more, before dispersing into the same wisps of light from which he came.

The crowd _roars_.

“And there you have it, folks!” declares the announcer over the loudspeaker. “Our very own Prince Noctis, the first summoner chosen in more than half a century!”

Noct, to his credit, smiles candidly at the crowd before bowing deeply to them as he did to Odin. It’s not so much a genuine display of respect for his audience, but rather that he is, for better or worse, a religious authority in Insomnia in spite of his ties to the Citadel. 

When it’s over, Ignis gently nudges him into his car and away from the prying eyes of the still cheering crowds. “You did well today,” he says, and means it.

“Mm…” Noct mumbles, tipping sideways into the window. “Still doesn’t feel right.”

“How so?” asks Ignis.”

“They’re _Astrals_ ,” says Noct, almost plaintively. “I mean… shit, they’re not the Six, but they’re still _gods_. I’ll bet they hate being paraded around like… like…”

“Party tricks?” Ignis supplies.

“Yeah, that.” Noct sighs heavily, and closes his eyes. “I swear, the next time the council pulls something like this, I’ll fight each and every one of ‘em.”

“Please don’t,” Ignis says dryly. “Besides, it’s good for morale, if nothing else.”

“There’s a fine line between boosting morale and outright _blasphemy_ , though.”

“As if Lady Lunafreya doesn’t have to make such overtures herself.”

Noct shudders, no doubt reliving that awful Imperial talk show the Oracle had appeared on last month. That so-called comedian had done his best to goad her, chip away at the perfectly peaceful persona she’d crafted for all her public appearances. It hadn’t worked; Lady Lunafreya is, apparently, a natural at public relations.

“It’s just that…” says Noct. “This is serious, you know? There’s a reason I’m like this, and people don’t get that.”

—except, Ignis doesn’t say, it’s hard to make people care about history and tradition when they can’t be bothered to care about the sickness that festers just outside the Crystal’s reach. It’s just as devastating as the Imperial forces that threaten to wrest control of every Luciian territory that is not the Crown City itself. The people will only care to the extent that the refugees flooding into Lucis’s borders will inconvenience them, and then complain about the Citadel’s immigration policies. Those that suggest alternatives, the disaster relief and philanthropic organizations that flock to the Citadel armed with signs and petitions, can only do so much to bring attention to what goes on outside.

Ignis sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s far too easy to complain about politics with no end goal of actually _doing_ something, and this train of thought is… unproductive.

“I’m gonna nap for a bit,” Noct announces. “Let me know when we’re close.”

“Sleep well,” Ignis replies, and does his best to mask the worry. Noct isn’t usually so drained after a summoning; that he’s this tired now can only mean that his bad leg is still acting up after yesterday’s rain, or that he’s still not quite over last week’s cold despite Ignis’s best efforts.

—but Ignis turns on the radio, then, and switches to a classical music station before turning the volume down. Next to him, Noct’s breathing evens.

* * *

It’s not a simple thing, to be named a summoner. The actual moment of it, Ignis never gets to see.

It happens behind closed doors, with King Regis and a too-young Prince Noctis locked in the Crystal’s chamber. It’s hard to say whether this, whatever this is, was a spontaneous decision, or if they had been summoned there by some force that Ignis can scarcely imagine at seven years old — but moments, hours later, King Regis emerges with a sleeping Prince Noctis in his arms.

He announces, with a tired smile, that the prince is to be a _summoner_.

Ignis had only been introduced to the prince a week ago; if he focuses on the memory hard enough, he can still feel the weight of Prince Noctis’s hand in his. It’s hard to connect the strands between his lessons on Luciian history and _Cosmogony_ , and reconcile them with the prince to whom he has been assigned as a friend, a close confidant, and a future advisor. 

What Ignis knows is this: the Crystal’s power is a vast and mysterious thing, something that is not quite Astral and not quite human. It pulses with life, as if it is Lucis’s own heartbeat. Fire, Thunder, and Blizzard in equal measure, granted to each of its monarchs — all of which can be amplified into stronger, harsher versions of themselves, or combined to even more devastating effect, depending on the strength of the monarchs that wield this power.

—but _summoning_ , King Regis explains, is different. It is a realm of magic that exists between the Black granted to the monarchs of Lucis and the White with which the Oracles of Tenebrae are blessed — something that speaks the language of the Astrals, resonating within Prince Noctis’s blood and his blood alone.

What Ignis knows is this: long ago, there were more summoners like Prince Noctis. They were praised for their connection to the gods, the bridge they embodied between mortal and divine. It was no small thing to borrow the power of the gods, no matter how abundant such an ability was all those many years ago. Theirs was a responsibility to uphold the balance between this realm and the next, and use their gifts to heal and restore and usher this world into an era of peace.

But somewhere, a handful of centuries ago, the summoners began to disappear from the world. It’s not clear what exactly happened to them — whether they were stripped of their powers, or whether the art had died out naturally as it became obsolete. There hasn’t been a summoner for more than half a century, and the last one to choose this path, instead of being hand-picked by the Astrals themselves, had died centuries before even that. The last summoner had been the warrior queen Aera Lucis Caelum XII, a woman who’s long made a home in every history textbook and folktale that so much as references her era; her legacy evokes an image of a woman armed with a spear in her hands, standing boldly and defiantly before a sea of daemons that threaten to consume absolutely everything.

What Ignis knows is this: once, a long time ago, a plague swept through Eos. It lingered in the air for so long that the Oracles had devised a system for treating it that still remains in effect today. But somehow, things are worse now. More and more people fall sick with it, too many for just one Oracle to handle — not without aid, even if that aid must be sent by the gods themselves.

There is much, in that moment, that King Regis does not say. Ignis sees it in the lines that seep into his forehead, how he holds Prince Noctis close and presses his nose into his hair as if drawing strength that he cannot gather on his own. 

“Noctis is… different,” he explains. “The Oracles may commune with the Astrals, borrow their power… but it is the summoners that have the power to shape Eos itself.”

Ignis stares at the sleeping prince, and wonders how something so small could house so much power. “And His Highness will… shape Eos, then?”

King Regis chuckles. “That the Astrals have chosen a summoner, after all this time only confirms that there is indeed a storm on the horizon. One that my son has no hope of weathering alone.”

He crouches down to one knee, and looks pleadingly into Ignis’s eyes. “I… I have no right to ask this of you, but please… Please stand at my son’s side, when the time comes.”

Prince Noctis sleeps on, unaware. Perhaps this is the last time he will ever truly be able to do so.

(If Ignis focuses on the memory hard enough, he can still feel the weight of Prince Noctis’s hand in his.)

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Ignis answers, and bows.

* * *

The first time Ignis watches Noctis summon, it takes his breath away.

Noctis is six years old, and so tired that he lists to the side and threatens to tip over. He’s been at this for days, hours upon hours of studying history and scripture, neither of which have been particularly helpful when he’s meant to weave a foreign and forgotten magic with his hands.

—but Noctis does it anyway. It sparks for a moment between his fingers and then _blooms_ as it coalesces, against all reason, into something tiny and glowing at their feet — something unlike any creature that Ignis has ever seen, in person or in books, with a red crystal glittering on its forehead.

It’s beautiful.

“Carbuncle,” Noctis breathes, smiling.

Ignis doesn’t have the time to process the prince’s words, because Noctis chooses that moment to close his eyes and crumple to the floor. The creature, Carbuncle, flickers for a moment before dispersing into a thousand tiny sparks.

In Ignis’s arms, Noctis is so fragile that the sheer magnitude of power that summoning magic affords him seems nearly paradoxical. What does it mean, that this power resides within Noctis alone? Are the gods so generous that they would bestow this power upon one of their children and expect nothing in return for years upon years?

King Regis sighs heavily, though his gentle smile does not fade as he takes Noctis into his arms. “There was no need for him to perform it twice,” he says, “but he wanted so badly for you to see it.”

Noctis does not stir in his father’s arms — and he’s always been small and frail and overly prone to illness and fatigue, but his stillness, now, goes beyond that. He sleeps heavily, his face so drawn and pale that Ignis can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever wake again. “Will he be all right, Your Majesty?”

“Of course, Ignis,” says King Regis. His smile becomes strained for a moment and he says, with a touch of bitterness: “The gods will not let him die so easily.”

Noctis sleeps for two days, and Ignis lingers at his bedside for longer than he should. What does it mean, that calling upon such a tiny creature had taken so much out of him? What does it mean that Noctis will one day be bound to beings far greater, with far more power than Noctis may ever be able to give? To be called forth to a journey across Eos to seek their favor?

—it hurts, to think too hard on it. There _is_ a meaning to it, but it has little to do with Noctis and everything to do with the sickness that laps at Lucis’s walls, never penetrating the Crystal’s barrier and yet impossible to ignore as it ravages everything outside and grants power to the daemons that prowl the land. It’s hardly Noctis’s fault that the sickness exists, and yet it’s Noctis that must deal with it, simply because the gods have said so.

It’s not fair — not in the slightest — but Ignis had promised to stand by Noctis’s side, through all of this. It won’t be for a long, long time, but they _will_ see this through, together.

* * *

They’re in the Regalia, speeding just a few miles over the speed limit towards Lucis’s gates. Noct had insisted on driving; Ignis is in the back seat, getting everyone’s passports and papers in order and arranging them in neat piles in Gladio’s lap. Prompto, enthused, practically bounces in the passenger seat. “Oh, this is gonna be _so cool_ ,” he gushes, and nobody has the heart to tell him that there is nothing _cool_ about what they are about to see outside the Crystal’s walls. 

It should be, though. It’s a thought that Ignis can’t quite shake — that Noct and Prompto have only just graduated, that such a trip should be every bit the celebration that Prompto thinks it is — but there have been reports upon reports of the Starscourge festering outside Lucis’s borders, of refugees pressing in because it is the Oracle’s job to cure the people of this sickness but it has progressed far past a point where her power alone is enough to stop it. 

They arrive, some hours later, in a camp full of medical tents. The people clustered in those tents are too pale, an unnatural darkness spilling into their eyes as their skin burns with something that is too horrific to be a normal fever. There are healthy people, too, if only physically — because there is an underlying _grief_ that lingers heavily in the atmosphere, born from the fact that there are too many people that are sick and no cure in sight.

Lady Lunafreya, who should be as radiant as ever in her white dress but is not because her hair is falling out of its ponytail and dark circles are collecting under her eyes, rises to her feet from a cot at the farthest end of the camp. She wipes her hands on her dress as she walks over, and there is nothing _peaceful_ or _radiant_ about her expression as she says, plaintively, “You didn’t need to come, Noctis. I can handle this.”

Noct crosses his arms and scoffs. “Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to.

She sighs, her eyes drifting closed. “We can’t go on like this. This needs to _end_.”

Noct presses his lips together into a hard line, tension settling into his shoulders. “Yeah…” he says, and it sounds far too flippant for someone whose very existence is defined by this — but this is classic Noct, distancing himself from the problem at least emotionally. That he’s doing so now, outside the confines of their safe little four-person unit, leaves a sour taste in Ignis’s mouth.

—but Noct forces a small smile for Lady Lunafreya. “Go ahead and take a break,” he says. “I’ve got this.”

She presses her lips together, clearly disapproving, but nods anyway.

This is the hard part.

Noct isn’t wearing his ceremonial robes today, this trip far too urgent and spontaneous for Ignis to have prepared them. He walks to the center of the camp with a furrow to his brow and his eyes fixed on the ground. There is no _publicity_ today — only the Starscourge, festering in the air and bleeding the people dry. Hundreds and thousands of years of this scourge and not a single healer or physician has ever come close to curing it. In the best case, it’s something left to the margins of Eos — the stuff of daemons, its victims few and far in between even if it is never _truly_ gone. 

But today is not the best case. The scourge, today, is at the worst it’s been in decades. It’s why Noct is a summoner and not just another Luciian prince.

Noct sweeps his sword upward in a familiar arc, and his eyes flutter shut. He looks so serene, then — beautiful, even — and it clashes with his usual black shirt and pants that Ignis has been struggling to weed out of his wardrobe for years. He doesn’t need to slam his sword into the ground for the wisps of light to start swirling around him. They’re different from the lights that come when he summons — denser, almost, and weighed down by something that’s not quite right.

“Wait, I don’t get it,” Ignis hears Prompto whisper to Gladio.

Noct pivots on his heel, the lights following the sweep of his sword as they swirl higher and higher. 

“The sending,” comes Gladio’s low, rumbling reply. “All those people sick and dying… they need to go somewhere, don’t they? Or they’ll go straight to the daemons.”

Noct twirls in a slow, deliberate arc. The lights continue to drift higher and higher, illuminating his face and deepening the shadows pressed into it. He staggers, his bad knee buckling for a moment before he rights himself with the next step. 

“Such is the duty of a summoner,” Lady Lunafreya explains, solemnly, as she clasps her hands together and closes her eyes. “Communing with the Astrals is only one part of it… but the _true_ purpose is to push back this scourge.”

Noct finishes, and he brings his feet together as he stills. His sword hangs limply at his side, his fingers curled so loosely around the hilt that it threatens to slip out of his grasp. His face is pale, paler than it has any right to be, and the shadows circling his eyes deepen. 

It’s still nothing, compared to those still living around them — weeping, sorrowful expressions as they come to each other in the wake of all the dead surrounding them.

“It’s done,” Noct breathes.

Prompto, stricken, chooses that moment to launch himself at Noct and fling his arms around him. “Shit, dude…” he says in a shaking voice.

—and Noct smiles, tiredly, and hugs him back. “It’s okay, Prompto,” he says, even though there is nothing okay about this — about the sheer magnitude of sickness and despair that lingers just outside Lucis’s borders. There is nothing okay about the way it renders the Oracle powerless, her magic obsolete in its wake as only a summoner can truly stand in its way.

* * *

—but if Ignis thinks long and hard enough about it, none of this started with Noct’s first summoning, or the first publicity stunt born from his ability to summon, or even his first sending. Not truly.

It starts when Noct is sixteen and Ignis, eighteen, both of them lying on their backs in one of the Citadel’s gardens. It’s late, so late that it may make more sense for Noct to stay here for the night, instead of going all the way back to his apartment. He’s been tired lately, schoolwork piled on top of training, piled on top of religious study, piled on top of political reports, piled on top of King Regis’s all too sudden dependence on that damned cane — because one day, too soon, summoner or not, the kingdom will be his.

“Tell me, Ignis,” he breathes, and raises his hand to the sky.

Perhaps, in moments of wishful thinking, Ignis will remember it as a clear night, stars scattered so perfectly across the sky that not even the weight of the artificial lights of Insomnia can obscure them. It’s a lie, of course, because it will rain soon, the threat of it choking the sky with a thick cover of clouds; since the Marilith attack, Noct has always been able to feel these things in his bones for days in advance. 

“I’m supposed to be this big, fancy ‘chosen one,’ right? Summon the gods, heal people, push back this stupid scourge… but do you really think it’ll be that simple?”

It’s a question that Ignis has asked himself more times than he can count, over the years. It’s a question that lingers in King Regis’s eyes, that he will never dare to ask aloud. It was never supposed to be a question for Noct himself to consider, and for one absurd moment, Ignis wonders if the Astrals will be angry for it.

“It’s just…” says Noct, “if this really was the answer to everything, then I’d be out of a job, right? Because someone else should’ve done something about it first.”

“You need only do your duty,” Ignis answers, quietly. 

The words linger on his tongue like ash. It’s wrong, all wrong, but it’s all that Ignis has ever been taught to say. Noct was never supposed to have such doubts because they are unbefitting of one chosen by the Astrals — and all Ignis can do, all Ignis has ever had to do, is hold him steady on that path that the Astrals had ordained for him.

Noct breathes deeply. “They want me to go on a journey.”

Ignis turns his head, and sees Noct looking up, forlornly, at the sky. There’s a certain tension in his brow that nothing Ignis is capable of doing will ever touch. If he could — if they were anywhere but here, in this Citadel garden surrounded by Crownsguard even if those guardsmen remain out of sight — then Ignis would smooth that tension away with his own hands.

“Don’t ask me how I know,” says Noct. “I can feel it. It’s… It’s not something I can get out of, I think. But I’m going to need the Six’s help, and I’ll need to go to them to ask for it.”

Ignis hums. “I hear that the scourge has been getting worse, as of late.”

Noct scoffs. “Yeah, figures. Luna’s been pretty busy, too.” He exhales slowly, pressing his lips together into a thin line. “She… shouldn’t have to deal with all of this by herself. I should be out there, fixing it with her.”

—but he _can’t_ go, Ignis doesn’t say. He can’t go because the Empire has been pressing into the farthest reaches of Lucis’s borders, and King Regis is growing old and frail, and the Crown may very well crumble without its heir. It’s not fair, because the scourge should be bigger than this, all of this — but with or without a divine ordinance championing him, Lucis will not let him go.

“I think,” says Ignis, “that it is _quite_ distasteful of the Astrals to demand this of you, and yet withhold so much.”

That earns him a laugh. “Don’t let them hear you say that,” says Noct — and for the first time in months, his voice is light. The smile that graces his features is a small one, but it’s genuine, and how long has it been since he last smiled like that?

Ignis sits up, and offers him his hand. “Come,” he says. “It’s getting late.”

Noct takes his hand, then — and if he holds on for a little longer than necessary, then Ignis says nothing.

* * *

For one long, terrifying instant, the world holds his breath. Emperor Aldercapt stands before King Regis, his hands tucked behind his back and a stern expression on his face, as he steps across the foyer. “Your Majesty,” he greets, his words unfailingly polite despite the poison that belies them.

Galahd is gone. The people rage in the streets, directing their ire towards King Regis and the Kingsglaive. All that is left is Insomnia and the terms of surrender, hand-delivered days ago by an emissary from an Imperial emmisary, and the Crown City, too, will be signed over to the Empire.

Noct scowls, his eyes averted to the floor as he clenches his fists at his sides so tightly that his knuckles are white. 

He’s the other cornerstone of this treaty — that he marry the Oracle, effectively binding himself to the Empire rather than the kingdom that is his birthright. And for one traitorous moment, Ignis finds himself wishing that they could be anywhere else — anywhere but the middle of this horrid farce, that would undo everything King Regis and all of his ancestors had lived to uphold.

King Regis, resigned, gestures for Emperor Aldercapt to follow him as they make their way to the council chamber. Their footsteps are like death knells, breaking the cloying silence that weighs heavily down on them all.

—and then, Lady Lunafreya clears her throat. “If I may,” she says, 

“I realize that this is hardly the time, but…” She stares resolutely at Emperor Aldercapt, steel in her spine that not even the worst that the emperor can throw at her could ever hope to bend. “Your Majesty, Prince Noctis is a summoner. He has a sacred duty to this world, and by insisting on this treaty now, you are actively impeding him.”

The emperor’s eyes narrow. “And I suppose you’d know all about _sacred duties_ , Lady Oracle,” he says, so derisively that it makes Ignis’s blood boil.

—but Lady Lunafreya does not bend. “I do,” she says. “The people are dying, and they cannot rely on the Crystal to protect them. That is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? All of those people, with no hope as they fall prey one after another to this awful scourge that has lingered in the air for centuries… you do this for _them_ , do you not?”

Emperor Aldercapt glowers at her, but says nothing in response — and what could he say, without insulting all that the Oracle is supposed to stand for?

“So,” says Lady Lunafreya, deceptively calm, “I propose we… postpone this treaty. In the meantime, Prince Noctis will carry out his sacred duty.”

“Do not presume that you can simply—“starts Emperor Aldercapt.

“And I will be going with him,” finishes Lady Lunafreya. “This falls within the scope of my duties as well… or would you impede the Oracle as well as the Summoner?” 

Emperor Aldercapt opens his mouth to protest, but she persists: “Whatever terms of peace or surrender you wish to negotiate must wait until after Prince Noctis has fulfilled his duties. Eos demands it.”

Oh, how Ignis wishes he could ignore the way King Regis’s face utterly _crumples_. It does him no favors, when Noct stands up a little bit straighter and says with the same sort of practiced confidence that gets him through the longest, most arduous council meetings, “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Any objections?”

For one long, terrifying instant, the world holds its breath.

King Regis exhales slowly, wearily. “Very well.”

* * *

(–but the sky is still bleeding.

A king who once walked across the world on his own two feet now lies imprisoned on an island that no one can confirm exists.

He could not banish the miasma that seeps into his people’s bones; he could only draw it into himself and then smile through the nausea as the people called it a _miracle_ and the Astrals called him an _abomination_. This is what the Crystal has blessed him with — and it is not the only power it had granted him, but it is the only one that matters.

His brother sits on his throne, picking up the pieces that the king had left behind. The king will be back someday — he had promised — but it will not be for a very long time because he is imprisoned here and the Astrals will not let him go.

He sees people and gods of centuries past and wonders: is it truly the right thing to do, to abandon his throne in favor of this half-baked plan to purge the star of its scourge? But the darkness recedes, ever so slightly — he sees this through half-lidded eyes as he blinks, blearily, up at the sky.

The sky bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds, and it laughs in the face of Ardyn Lucis Caelum for daring to try.)

* * *

There are six of them, when they leave Insomnia.

Noct strides down the Citadel’s steps with his shoulders squared back and his hands clenched into fists at his side. This, he’s always known, is a journey that spells his duty not only to the crown, but to all of Eos – even if it was never fully clear that there would be such a journey until a few short years ago. This, Ignis realizes as dread pools in his stomach, is what it means to be a _summoner_.

At Noct’s heels is Gladiolus, always in his shadow and perfectly in-step behind him. This is the crux of Gladio’s life’s work: the prince’s life in his hands, far away from the prying eyes of the Luciian public and the safety enforced by the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive. Noct is far from the first of his kind – no one with any degree of respect or reverence would dare to stand in a summoner’s way, but politics have always thought themselves more important than spirituality. Noct would be the farthest thing from safe in Imperial territory, Astrals-sanctioned journey or no.

Then there’s Prompto. For all intents and purposes, he should seem out of place: he’s only just made Crownsguard, only just had the necessary papers filed that would enable him to remain by Noct’s side – and yet there was never any doubt whether or not he’d be coming on this journey.

Ignis lingers by Lady Lunafreya, radiant in her white dress as she bows reverently to King Regis. 

“I’m so sorry about this,” she says, her voice oddly heavy as if she hadn’t been the one to insist that this journey happen today — as if she hadn’t been the one to throw herself between King Regis and Emperor Aldercapt and declare boldly, in front of Luciians and Imperials alike: _Whatever terms of peace or surrender you wish to negotiate must wait until after Prince Noctis has fulfilled his duties. Eos demands it._

“Don’t be sorry, my dear,” says King Regis as he cups her face with one hand. “You may have just about saved my son’s life.” 

It’s a lie, of course – one that prickles under Ignis’s skin. _The gods will not let him die so easily_ , King Regis had said once, long ago, but there was always something else that lurked under the surface of his words. 

Years later, Ignis is fairly confident that he knows the answer: that there is a certain finality to this journey, one that King Regis wouldn’t dare to utter. For better or worse, Noct will not be the same once this journey is completed. It makes dread pool in Ignis’s gut, but Noct’s is a destiny that was always mapped in the stars — and Ignis would be the worst kind of person, to stand in his way.

“I will do all that I can to see him through this,” Lunafreya promises. There’s steel in her voice, though whether it’s directed at Emperor Aldercapt, who lingers at the top of the stairs, or at the Astrals that demanded this journey in the first place, Ignis can’t say.

“You have my thanks,” answers King Regis. 

Lunafreya nods, smiling, and then descends the stairs, two with each step.

—and Ignis has prepared for this for years. This should not be the height of his career as Noct’s advisor, and yet unease roots him to the spot. “Your Majesty, I…” he starts, but the words get stuck in his throat, and he can’t speak without disrupting the heaviness that’s settled behind his eyes.

“Take care, Ignis,” says King Regis, kindly. “I cannot thank you for all that you’ve done for my son. I have no right to ask more of you, but…” He rests his hand atop Ignis’s shoulder, a solid weight that simultaneously sets each of Ignis’s nerves alight and threatens to send him crumbling into dust. “Please… whatever happens, remain by Noctis’s side. The gods demand much of him… too much, I fear. He will need someone at his side, watching over him.”

… but has that ever not been the case, as far as Noct is concerned?

“You have my word,” says Ignis, bowing.

Then, behind King Regis, the Imperial chancellor, Ardyn Izunia, all but glides down the stairs with his hands tucked behind his back and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes tugging at his lips — the only bit of insurance that Emperor Aldercapt had been able to secure, for this farce of a spiritual journey. “I so hate to break up this… touching display,” he says, almost sneers, “but if we’re to reach Cauthess within the next week, we really must be going.”

“Of course, Chancellor,” says King Regis, all strains of emotion gone from his voice. “Thank you, for agreeing to accompany my son in this endeavor.”

Ardyn bows, but there is nothing reverent about the gesture. “The pleasure is all mine, Your Majesty.”

As Ardyn follows the rest to the car, Ignis waits and watches. 

Ardyn spins on his heel, and grins at Ignis with all of his teeth. “Shall we see this through, Mr. Scientia?”

Ignis nods, and makes his way to the too-spacious car. He slides into the driver’s seat, catching Noct’s eye through the rearview mirror, and swallows down every prayer he wants to utter that this journey will not end badly.


End file.
